The Wayward Wife (24 page)

‘Mr Gaines?'

‘Haven't seen him all day,' Larry said. ‘What you need right now, if you don't mind me saying so, is a wash and brush up and a nice cup of tea. Canteen's not closed but they're using the annexe. Even if you don't have a ticket I'm sure someone will find you a berth in the concert hall. Ladies are at the back behind the curtains if you're worried about decency.'

‘Decency is the last thing on my mind,' Susan said. ‘Have you been here all afternoon, Larry?'

‘Yer, on loan to the Canadians. They're very excited 'cause the war has finally arrived on our doorstep. They've been firing off bulletins all evening. Half of them, along with the Yanks, are watching the fireworks from the roof.'

‘If it's damage they're after,' Susan said, ‘they should be downriver. Lots of casualties.'

‘Bully-boy tactics,' Larry said. ‘If Churchill hadn't bombed Berlin …' He shrugged. ‘Well, heck, we can't just sit back and let the beggars do as they like. You're not going upstairs, are you?'

‘I do have work to do, you know.'

‘Only the news studios are in use. The offices are deserted,' Larry said. ‘By the sound of it, it's going to be a heavy night. I'd keep my head down, if I were you.'

‘Talking of heads, you wouldn't happen have a spare hairbrush on you, by any chance?'

Larry laughed. ‘No, nor a spare pair of knickers either,' then, still chuckling, headed across the foyer to the door of the concert hall and left Susan to make her own way to the ladies'.

The acoustics in the concert hall had been designed to enhance sound but the chorus of snores, sighs, moans and other unsavoury noises that rose from the bodies huddled on the floor was a far cry from a nocturne by Debussy or a Brahms lullaby. Even muffled by the curtains that screened the tiers at the rear of the auditorium the snores of a couple of hundred men trying to snatch some shut-eye was enough to keep Susan awake.

There was also much coming and going along the dimly lighted aisles. Duty Officer, House Supervisor and various other officials, including wardens, matrons and a nosy copper or two, kept popping in not just to ensure that everyone was comfortable but to check that there was no hanky-panky going on which, given the circumstances, there most certainly was not.

Susan removed her stockings and dress but kept on her slip, unlike some of the younger girls who, defiantly throwing modesty to the wind, had peeled down to bra and pants before snuggling down to sleep.

Sleep, though, was hard to come by. Susan dozed fitfully on and off, waking every time the door above her squeaked or the light of a warden's torch flickered and, of course, every time a bomb went off in the vicinity of Portland Place.

At four, or shortly after, an all-clear sounded.

The dishevelled pack stirred, yawned, groped for trousers or skirts and set about buttoning, fastening and lighting cigarettes or, draped in blankets, stumbled off to find the nearest lavatory. By five, the canteen was in full swing serving breakfast to those whose day was about to begin and supper to those who had been on watch all night.

By six, washed, dressed and fed, Susan was at her desk in the third-floor office peering blearily at her memo pad when the door flew open and Bob Gaines pranced into the room.

His tie was loose, his jacket unbuttoned. The sweat-stained fedora, pushed back from his brow, added a raffish touch to his appearance that seemed at odds with the early hour and the fact that it was Sunday.

‘I thought you were in Dover,' Susan said.

He looped an arm about her neck and kissed her mouth.

‘I was,' he said, ‘and I'm damned glad to be back. For a while there I thought we might not make it. The bastards were machine-gunning the trains. Can you believe it? Coming in low and shooting the daylights out of passenger trains. More than half the lines are closed and Waterloo station is belching smoke like a goddamned volcano.'

‘How did you get here?'

‘Come on,' he said, tugging her arm. ‘Come and I'll show you how I got here. Bring your coat, honey. We won't be coming back any time soon.'

‘Robert, I'm on duty.'

‘Not any more, you're not. This,' he said, ‘you've got to see,' and waltzed her out into the corridor and along it to the lift.

The van was one of two damaged Outside Broadcast vehicles that had been dumped in a yard behind the plant room. Its side panels were pocked by shrapnel and the cab door hung half off its hinge. A mechanic in a tin hat and blue overalls was poking about in the rear where turntables and cables had been wrenched from their fittings.

‘This?' Susan said. ‘You came all the way from Dover in this wreck? How in heaven's name did you all fit in?'

‘There were only four of us, plus a couple of your guys. The unit was useless anyway. Took a blast from a shell that ruined all the recording equipment. We persuaded the OB crew that sitting in the open on Dover harbour in a busted truck wasn't the safest place to be and we'd be better off heading for London.'

‘In the dark, in middle of the biggest air raid we've had so far?' Susan said. ‘You're mad, you're completely mad.'

‘Call it resourceful,' Bob said. ‘Heck of a ride, though. Heck of a ride. We scrounged a couple of gallons of gas from an army truck at a checkpoint somewhere near Ashford. It's great what you can pull off if you work for the BBC.'

‘You saw it then? You saw the fires?'

‘Are you kidding? The whole goddamned sky was ablaze. The closer we got to London the more detours we had to make.' He leaned against the sagging door. ‘God, what a ride that was.'

The mechanic emerged from the rear of the van, shaking his head. ‘Buggered up proper,' he said, then, to Susan, ‘Sorry, miss – but it's not my job to fix it. We'll need to wait for the electrical chaps.'

‘Of course, you will,' Bob said. ‘Where are they?'

‘Haven't a clue,' the mechanic said.

‘Busy elsewhere, I guess,' Bob said. ‘I could run her down to the depot for you, if you like.'

‘The depot?' the mechanic said.

‘Our place at King's Cross.'

‘Your place?'

‘The depot, yeah. Surely you've heard of the depot?'

‘'Course I've heard o' the depot.'

‘There you are then. Bob's your uncle.'

‘I ha'n't got the keys,' the mechanic said.

‘I have.' Bob dug into his jacket pocket and produced a ring with three keys on it. ‘All bona fide, see.'

Clearly at a disadvantage, the mechanic capitulated. ‘You takin' the lady with you?'

‘She's my navigator.'

‘Well, if you're sure, like?'

‘Sure, I'm sure,' Bob said.

He helped Susan into the cab and followed her on to the bench behind the wheel. He closed the door as best he could, fitted a key into the ignition and fired the engine.

‘Where is this depot?' Susan said.

‘What depot?' Bob said, grinning.

‘Dear God,' Susan said, ‘you really are—'

‘Resourceful?' Bob suggested.

‘Incorrigible,' said Susan.

Salt Street Mews, like much of central London, had escaped the overnight raid unscathed. Vivian had spent most of the night on the roof fire-spotting. The spectacle of flames and smoke, flares, searchlights and the incredible din of ack-ack guns banging away had been exhausting. As soon as she stepped into the house, however, her resolve took over and, pausing only to change her clothes, she headed straight for the typewriter to put in an hour or two on her new book.

She was pecking furiously at the keys when Basil, bathed, shaved and dressed in his Sunday best, appeared at her side with a breakfast tray.

She glanced up at him and scowled.

‘I must say, Chucks,' Basil told her, ‘you've never looked as lovely as you do now.'

‘Hah!' said Vivian.

‘No, truly. There's something incredibly stimulating about a woman wearing only a dressing gown and a steel helmet.'

‘Sarcasm does not become you.' Viv paused long enough to take off the tin hat. ‘Why are you all done up?'

‘I am not done up,' Basil said. ‘I have merely made myself presentable.'

‘You're not going to the office, are you?'

‘Of course, I am.'

With the forefinger of her left hand Vivian added a semi-colon to the text on the page in the typewriter, then, picking up a fork, pierced the surface of the egg that Basil had poached for her and dipped a piece of toast into the yolk.

‘It's Sunday,' she said. ‘Isn't it?'

‘Indeed, it is,' Basil said. ‘But it's also wartime and war, as we are learning all too quickly, is hell. I may not be home for a day or two, possibly not until the weekend.'

‘Why?'

‘I've a strong suspicion yesterday's raids might signal the beginning of the Luftwaffe's attempt to soften us up for an end of the month invasion.'

Vivian ate a mouthful of toast and washed it down with coffee. ‘Hitler won't invade.'

‘You may be right,' Basil said. ‘He probably won't risk a landing until he's absolutely sure our airfields are out of action. We're a long way from that happening. Hence the increased number of raids to weaken our morale.'

‘He's just mad at Churchill for bombing Berlin.'

‘Actually, he's just mad,' said Basil. ‘Eat your breakfast, Viv, and assure me – word of honour – that you'll take care of yourself until we meet again.'

‘For God's sake, Basil, you're not going off to join the army.' She paused and sat up. ‘Are you?' She dropped the fork, pushed her chair back from the desk and scrambled to her feet. ‘Oh, my God! Don't tell me you've enlisted.'

‘No, no, dearest. My goodness, I didn't mean to alarm you. I'll be no further away than Portland Place if you need me.'

‘I do, Basil. Oh, I do need you,' said Vivian.

‘If it's anything urgent pop round to Broadcasting House and flash your guest pass. If that doesn't work have them call me.' He drew her to him and peered into her tear-stained face. ‘What is it? Vivian, what's wrong?'

‘I love you, you idiot,' Vivian said, snuffling.

‘Oh!' said Basil, nonplussed. ‘I don't think I've ever heard you say that before.'

‘Well, damn it, I'm saying it now. I love you and I'd rather not lose you. So be careful, Basil. Please, please, be careful.'

‘I will,' Basil said. ‘I promise you, I will.'

He kissed her and, picking up his overnight bag, left her to pull herself together, finish her breakfast and presumably get on with her book.

It was close to nine on Sunday morning before Breda returned to Pitt Street. She was surprised to find her house still standing. The night raid had reduced many buildings to smouldering ruins and the sight of people picking over the rubble in search of some small thing around which they could begin to rebuild their lives was chastening.

Carrying their belongings on their backs or pushing prams and handcarts laden with salvaged goods, the homeless of Shadwell headed for schools, rest centres and any temporary accommodations they could find. Vans and lorries came and went. Fire tenders, exhausted firemen clinging to the rail, rattled along the bottom of Docklands Road and in one side street an isolated group of soldiers was cautiously probing the debris for an unexploded parachute bomb.

Billy was very quiet. He walked by Breda's side carrying a bundle of comics that his grandfather had saved for him and a brown paper bag of chocolates that Nora had tipped from the box that Susie had brought her.

What Billy made of it and what he would remember in later life Breda couldn't begin to imagine. Then, suddenly, there was her house, roof in place, walls upright, windows still in their frames. Mrs McNair, three down, was sweeping debris from the pavement while old Mr Johnston, who'd never done a hand's turn in his life, beat dust from a coconut mat that had once said ‘Welcome'.

Breda had spent the night in the larder in Stratton's.

Her father-in-law had staggered in just after the siren announced the second wave. He'd told them that the quays, warehouses and some of the ships in St Katharine Docks were on fire, that he, high up in the cabin of a crane, had watched incendiaries dropping and dive-bombers strafing the barges and that the glass of the cabin had blown in and he'd only just managed to shin down the ladder before the coaster at the quay below had been blown to smithereens.

Billy, all agog, had swallowed his grandfather's lurid tale without question, but Breda was not so sure. Ronnie's old man was prone to exaggeration. She doubted, for instance, if a union representative had ordered him to find shelter and, when the all-clear sounded, to scuttle off home.

Nora's neighbours had been carried off by their grown-up children who apparently thought there were safer places to shelter than Stratton's Dining Rooms. By
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a.m., when the raid was at its worst, Breda had been inclined to agree with them. The larder had been shaken by explosion after explosion. Nora had prayed and fingered her rosary and Matt had been too scared to deliver his usual speech about pagan superstition.

Prompted by Breda, he'd fiddled with a water bottle, the kettle and the little paraffin stove and had made them all cocoa which he'd laced with rum from a bottle hidden under one of the mattresses, a potion that had blunted their fears somewhat and had helped get them through the night. Billy had slept through most of it. He'd wakened only when one ear-splitting crash signalled the loss of a chimney or part of the roof.

When morning had finally arrived and Breda had crept out to see what damage had been done, however, she found that it wasn't a chimney-head that had been blown down but the whole front wall of the shop.

She'd expected her mother to throw a fit at the extent of the damage but Nora had been unusually sanguine. ‘Sure and this will take a bit of clearing up,' was all she'd said, had sent Matt upstairs to check the bedrooms and, picking about in the kitchen, had managed to salvage enough unspoiled food to make them all a breakfast of sorts.